Heart of a Dog (9 page)

    'I don't get it,' he said ingenuously. 'I mustn't swear. I mustn't spit. Yet all you ever do is call me names. I suppose only professors are allowed to swear in the RSFSR.'

    Blood rushed to Philip Philipovich's face. He filled a glass, breaking it as he did so. Having drunk from another one, he thought: 'Much more of this, and he'll start teaching me how to behave, and he'll be right. I must control myself.'

    He turned round, made an exaggeratedly polite bow and said with iron self-control: 'I beg your pardon. My nerves are slightly upset. Your name struck me as a little odd, that is all. Where, as a matter of interest, did you dig it up?'

    'The house committee helped me. We looked in the calendar. And I chose a name.'

    'That name cannot possibly exist on any calendar.'

    'Can't it?' The man grinned. 'Then how was it I found it on the calendar in your consulting

room?'

    Without getting up Philip Philipovich leaned over to the knob on the wall and Zina appeared in answer to the bell.

    'Bring me the calendar from the consulting-room.'

    There was a pause. When Zina returned with the calendar, Philip Philipovich asked: 'Where is it?'

    'The name-day is March 4th.'

    'Show me . . . h'm . . . dammit, throw the thing into the stove at once.' Zina, blinking with

fright, removed the calendar. The man shook his head reprovingly.

'And what surname will you take?'

'I'll use my real name.'

'You're real name? What is it?'

'Sharikov.*

Shvonder the house committee chairman was standing in his leather tunic in front of the

professor's desk. Doctor Bormen-thal was seated in an armchair. The doctor's glowing face (he had just come in from the cold) wore an expression whose perplexity was only equalled by that of Philip Philipovich.

    'Write it?' he asked impatiently.

    'Yes,' said Shvonder, 'it's not very difficult. Write a certificate, professor. You know the sort of thing - 'This is to certify that the bearer is really Poligraph Poligraphovich Sharikov . . . h'm, born in, h'm . . . this flat.'

    Bormenthal wriggled uneasily in his armchair. Philip Philipovich tugged at his moustache.

    'God dammit, I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. He wasn't born at all, he

simply . . . well, he sort of..'

    'That's your problem,' said Shvonder with quiet malice. 'It's up to you to decide whether he was born or not ... It was your experiment, professor, and you brought citizen Sharikov into the world.'

    'It's all quite simple,' barked Sharikov from the glass-fronted cabinet, where he was admiring the reflection of his tie.

    'Kindly keep out of this conversation,' growled Philip Philipovich. 'It's not at all simple.'

    'Why shouldn't I join in?' spluttered Sharikov in an offended voice, and Shvonder instantly

supported him.

    'I'm sorry, professor, but citizen Sharikov is absolutely correct. He has a right to take part in a discussion about his affairs, especially as it's about his identity documents. An identity document is the most important thing in the world.'

    At that moment a deafening ring from the telephone cut into the conversation. Philip Philipovich said into the receiver:

    'Yes . . .', then reddened and shouted: 'Will you please not distract me with trivialities. What's it to do with you?' And he hurled the receiver back on to the hook.

    Delight spread over Shvonder's face.

    Purpling, Philip Philipovich roared: 'Right, let's get this finished.'

    He tore a sheet of paper from a notepad and scribbled a few words, then read it aloud in a

voice of exasperation:

    ' "I hereby certify . . ." God, what am I supposed to certify? . . . let's see . . . "That the bearer is a man created during a laboratory experiment by means of an operation on the brain and that he requires identity papers" . . .'I object in principle to his having these idiotic documents, but still . . . Signed:

    "Professor Preobrazhensky!" '

    'Really, professor,' said Shvonder in an offended voice. 'What do you mean by calling these

documents idiotic? I can't allow an undocumented tenant to go on living in this house, especially one who hasn't been registered with the police for military service. Supposing war suddenly breaks out with the imperialist aggressors?'

    'I'm not going to fight!' yapped Sharikov.

    Shvonder was dumbfounded, but quickly recovered himself and said politely to Sharikov: 'I'm afraid you seem to be completely lacking in political consciousness, citizen Sharikov. You must register for military service at once.'

    'I'll register, but I'm dammed if I'm going to fight,' answered Sharikov nonchalantly, straightening his tie.

    Now it was Shvonder's turn to be embarrassed. Preobraz-hensky exchanged a look of grim complicity with Bormenthal, who nodded meaningly.

    'I was badly wounded during the operation,' whined Sharikov. 'Look - they cut me right open.' He pointed to his head. The scar of a fresh surgical wound bisected his forehead.

    'Are you an anarchist-individualist?' asked Shvonder, raising his eyebrows.

    'I ought to be exempt on medical grounds,' said Sharikov.

    'Well, there's no hurry about it,' said the disconcerted Shvonder. 'Meanwhile we'll send the

professor's certificate to the police and they'll issue your papers.'

    'Er, look here . . .' Philip Philipovich suddenly interrupted him, obviously struck by an idea. 'I suppose you don't liave a room to spare in the house, do you? I'd be prepared to buy it.'

    Yellowish sparks flashed in Shvonder's brown eyes.

    'No, professor, I very much regret to say that we don't have a room. And aren't likely to,

either.'

    Philip Philipovich clenched his teeth and said nothing. Again the telephone rang as though to order. Without a word Philip Philipovich flicked the receiver off the rest so that it hung down, spinning slightly, on its blue cord. Everybody jumped. 'The old man's getting rattled,' thought

Bormenthal. With a glint in his eyes Shvonder bowed and went out.

Sharikov disappeared after him, his boots creaking.

    The professor and Bormenthal were left alone. After a short silence, Philip Philipovich shook his head gently and said:

    'On my word of honour, this is becoming an absolute nightmare. Don't you see? I swear, doctor, that I've suffered more these last fourteen days than in the past fourteen years! I tell you, he's a scoundrel . . .'

    From a distance came the faint tinkle of breaking glass, followed by a stifled woman's scream, then silence. An evil spirit dashed down the corridor, turned into the consulting-room where it produced another crash and immediately turned back. Doors slammed and Darya Petrovna's low cry was heard from the kitchen. There was a howl from Sharikov.

    'Oh, God, what now!' cried Philip Philipovich, rushing for the door.

    'A cat,' guessed Bormenthal and leaped after him. They ran down the corridor into the hall,

burst in, then turned into the passage leading to the bathroom and the kitchen. Zina came dashing out of the kitchen and ran full tilt into Philip Philipovich.

    'How many times have I told you not to let cats into the flat,' shouted Philip Philipovich in fury. 'Where is he? Ivan Amoldovich, for God's sake go and calm the patients in the waiting-room!'

    'He's in the bathroom, the devil,' cried Zina, panting. Philip Philipovich hurled himself at the bathroom door, but it would not give way.

    'Open up this minute!'

    The only answer from the locked bathroom was the sound of something leaping up at the

walls, smashing glasses, and Sharikov's voice roaring through the door: 'I'll kill you . . .'

Water could be heard gurgling through the pipes and pouring into the bathtub. Philip

Philipovich leaned against the door and tried to break it open. Darya Petrovna, clothes torn and face distorted with anger, appeared in the kitchen doorway. Then the glass transom window, high up in the wall between the bathroom and the kitchen, shattered with a multiple crack. Two large fragments crashed into the kitchen followed by a tabby cat of gigantic proportions with a face like a policeman and a blue bow round its neck. It fell on to the middle of the table, right into a long platter, which it broke in half. From there it fell to the floor, turned round on three legs as it waved the fourth in the air as though executing a dance-step, and instantly streaked out through the back door, which was slightly ajar.The door opened wider and the cat was replaced by the face of an old woman in a headscarf, followed by her polka-dotted skirt. The old woman wiped her mouth with her index and second fingers, stared round the kitchen with protruding eyes that burned with curiosity and she said:

    'Oh, my lord!'

    Pale, Philip Philipovich crossed the kitchen and asked threateningly:

    'What do you want?'

    'I wanted to have a look at the talking dog,' replied the old woman ingratiatingly and crossed herself. Philip Philipovich went even paler, strode up to her and hissed: 'Get out of my kitchen this instant!'

    The old woman tottered back toward the door and said plaintively:

    'You needn't be so sharp, professor.'

    'Get out, I say!' repeated Philip Philipovich and his eyes went as round as the owl's. He

personally slammed the door behind the old woman.

    'Darya Petrovna, I've asked you before . . .'

    'But Philip Philipovich,' replied Darya Petrovna in desperation, clenching her hands, 'what can I do? People keep coming in all day long, however often I throw them out.'

    A dull, threatening roar of water was still coming from the bathroom, although Sharikov was now silent. Doctor Bormenthal came in.

    'Please, Ivan Amoldovich ... er... how many patients are there in the waiting-room?'

    'Eleven,' replied Bormenthal.

    'Send them all away, please. I can't see any patients today.'

    With a bony finger Philip Philipovich knocked on the bathroom door and shouted: 'Come out at once! Why have you locked yourself in?'

    'Oh . . . oh . . .!' replied Sharikov in tones of misery.

    'What on earth ... I can't hear you - turn off the water.'

    'Ow-wow! . . .'

    'Turn off the water! What has he done? I don't understand . . .' cried Philip Philipovich, working himself into a frenzy. Zina and Darya Petrovna opened the kitchen door and peeped out. Once again Philip Philipovich thundered on the bathroom door with his fist.

    'There he is!' screamed Darya Petrovna from the kitchen. Philip Philipovich rushed in. The distorted features of Poligraph Poligraphovich appeared through the broken transom and leaned out into the kitchen .His eyes were tear-stained and there was a long scratch down his nose, red with

fresh blood.

'Have you gone out of your mind?' asked Philip Philipovich. 'Why don't you come out of there?'

Terrified and miserable, Sharikov stared around and replied:

'I've shut myself in.'

'Unlock the door, then. Haven't you ever seen a lock before?'

'The blasted thing won't open!' replied Poligraph, terrified.

'Oh, my God, he's shut the safety-catch too!' screamed Zina, wringing her hands.

    'There's a sort of button on the lock,' shouted Philip Philipovich, trying to out-roar the water. 'Press it downwards . . . press it down! Downwards!'

    Sharikov vanished, to reappear over the transom a minute later.

    'I can't see a thing!' he barked in terror.

    'Well, turn the light on then! He's gone crazy!'

    'That damned cat smashed the bulb,' replied Sharikov, 'and when I tried to catch the bastard by the leg I turned on the tap and now I can't find it.'

    Appalled, all three wrung their hands in horror.

    Five minutes later Bormenthal, Zina and Darya Petrovna were sitting in a row on a damp

carpet that had been rolled up against the foot of the bathroom door, pressing it hard with their bottoms. Fyodor the porter was climbing up a ladder into the transom window, with the lighted candle from Darya Petrovna's ikon in his hand. His posterior, clad in broad grey checks, hovered in the air, then vanished through the opening.

    'Ooh! . . . ow!' came Sharikov's strangled shriek above the roar of water.

    Fyodor's voice was heard: 'There's nothing for it, Philip Philipovich, we'll have to open the door and let the water out. We can mop it up from the kitchen.'

    'Open it then!' shouted Philip Philipovich angrily.

    The three got up from the carpet and pushed the bathroom door open. Immediately a tidal

wave gushed out into the passage, where it divided into three streams - one straight into the lavatory opposite, one to the right into the kitchen and one to the left into the hall. Splashing and prancing, Zina shut the door into the hall. Fyodor emerged, up to his ankles in water, and for some reason grinning. He was soaking wet and looked as if he were wearing oilskins.

    'The water-pressure was so strong, I only just managed to turn it off,' he explained.

    'Where is he?' asked Philip Philipovich, cursing as he lifted one wet foot.

    'He's afraid to come out,' said Fyodor, giggling stupidly.

    'Will you beat me. Dad' came Sharikov's tearful voice from the bathroom.

    'You idiot!' was Philip Philipovich's terse reply.

    Zina and Darya Petrovna, with bare legs and skirts tucked up to their knees, and Sharikov and the porter barefoot with rolled-up trousers were hard at work mopping up the kitchen floor with wet cloths, squeezing them out into dirty buckets and into the sink. The abandoned stove roared away. The water swirled out of the back door, down the well of the back staircase and into the cellar.

    On tiptoe, Bormenthal was standing in a deep puddle on the parquet floor of the hall and talking through the crack of the front door, opened only as far as the chain would allow.